Say Anything Else
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: A 'what if' situation developed from a scene in the beginning of TS3. .:. Woody gives the orders for Jessie and Buzz to call the number, Andy's cell phone number. Woody grips the wireless home phone tightly and holds his breath. .:. WoodyXAndy pairing.


**A/N: So I saw TS3 for a second time yesterday, and I thought: 'what if?' about a scene in the beginning I'm sure all of you will recognize. I just really wanted something else to happen, for slashy reasons. ;D**

**Pairings: WoodyXAndy, because I'm weird like that. :)**

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This is it, the last hurrah, the final shot at being noticed, remembered, maybe even held or played with, if only for nostalgia's sake. This is the only plan Woody has left: Operation Playtime. It's shaky and unlikely and probably doomed to fail, but it's all he has left. It's all he can do before his boy goes off to college, finally a man.

Taking a deep breath, Woody gives the orders for Jessie and Buzz to call the number. Andy's cell phone number.

They dial. The cell buzzes and rings in Rex's four fingers. Footsteps approach. Woody grips the wireless home phone tightly, his breath being held in anticipation.

"Where's that stupid phone?" Andy's voice, deeper with age, sounds from outside the safety of the toybox.

Woody clings to the home phone, facing away from the opening. Andy lifts the lid, and Woody knows that if he were human, sweat would be collecting on his forehead and his heart would be skipping beats.

"Oh, here it is," Andy murmurs to himself as he rips the phone from Rex's little claws. He flips it open. "Hello?"

Woody tenses, the fluff in his fabric body tying in knots. His fingers twitch on the house's phone, and he can't breathe. His gnaws on his lower lip, unsure. The plan is for Andy to see him holding the phone. The plan is for Andy to look at them in the chest and remember. The plan dictates that none of them reveal that they are living, beings with thoughts and souls buried inside their plastic and cloth, capable of speech and movement. And yet…

And yet, Woody wonders suddenly what would happen if he broke that code and said something into the receiver.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" Andy tries again, clearly about to give up and shut his phone to end the call.

On impulse, on desire, on the basis of the thought that he would give anything to have Andy smile at him again, Woody speaks, his eyes closing as he does. "Hiya, Andy," he says slowly, his voice thick with tears he can't shed. He opens his eyes and dares not look over his shoulder.

In front of him, Buzz's face shifts from dumb-action-figure to expression-filled-living-creature. He sends Woody a look that very clearly says, 'What do you think you're doing? You'll blow our cover! He'll _know!_ This isn't like Sid all those years ago; we don't want to scare our owner!'

Woody ignores him and awaits Andy's reply.

"Who is this?" Andy says. He takes a step back from the toy chest and leans back on one foot.

Woody braces himself. He dares to answer truthfully. "It's me, your old pal Woody. Don't you remember me?" he says, his voice turning to a whisper at the end. He feels heartbroken, even if he doesn't have the beating organ in his chest.

"Woody…? C-come on, don't play jokes. Woody is just a doll. You can't be –"

"But I am," Woody says hoarsely. He swallows to clear his throat, and feels his legs – so much like jelly – begin to stand up on the uneven surface below him. He grips the phone to his chest as if it will protect him. "And I miss you. We all miss you, Andy. We don't want you to forget about us…"

As if in slow motion, Andy turns and stares at his toy box. He doesn't blink, doesn't scream, doesn't laugh. Instead, he starts to cry. The tears, at first, are only salty droplets of water welling up in is eyes, but soon they spill over as he blinks and kneels down in front of the wagon-painted toybox. One by one, his tears slip down his lightly freckled face.

"This is impossible," he whispers as he drops his cell phone onto the wood floor. "I'm dreaming. Aren't I? You can't be… _alive,"_ Andy says, but Woody can tell that the seventeen-year-old doesn't believe his own words.

Woody shuts off the phone and lays it gently on top of the pile of toys below him. Without losing eye contact with the boy he's watched since he can remember, he climbs out onto the edge of the wooden box and stands on it, staring up at Andy's face. "You're not dreaming, Andy," he says softly. "This is real. Look," and he holds up his hand.

Numbly, Andy mimics the action and touches his palm to the entirety of the little cowboy's hand, and Woody's hand balls into a fist to keep from shaking.

"But how?" Andy wants to know. He's sniffling, the few stray tears that leaked falling away and ceasing their flow. "Magic?"

Woody shakes his head. "I'm not sure. That could be it. It could be whatever reason you'd like to think: magic, the power of creation or imagination, or maybe it's just how things are, like how you're born and live, and how animals grow and die. Whatever the case, Andy, I want you to know that before you leave on Friday, think of us. Me, Buzz, Jessie, the Potatoheads… all of us that are left. Give us someplace to be for when you go, because we don't want to be gone in the trash or someone else's home in case you need us."

Andy nods and wipes his cheeks with his hand. The other is still holding Woody's small hand, an appendage made of vinyl and feeling of vinyl like how Woody's skin has always felt, but somehow warm and moving. It's bizarre, but Andy somehow doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want Woody to be a doll again, not when he now knows that Woody is as much alive and his loyal friend as any human could be (but isn't, at least not for him).

Woody slowly pulls away, and climbs back into the wooden chest. "I know you're not a kid anymore, Andy, so you might not need us, but I want you to think about it. Think about what I- _we_ mean to you, because you mean everything to m- I mean, _us_."

"I will," Andy murmurs, and even though Woody is about to shut the lid on the toybox, Andy stops him with a darting hand to catch the lid. "Wait!"

Woody gives him a questioning look. "Yes, Andy?"

The teenager chews on his lip. He lifts the lid again and picks Woody up, the doll not at all protesting.

Without warning, Andy crushes Woody to his chest, and Woody can hear Andy's heartbeat: fast and aching. He feels warmer than anything Woody has ever felt or remembers. Smiling, Woody returns the embrace with his hands gripping the fabric of Andy's blue shirt, a blue that matches the human's eyes.

"I've missed you, too," Andy confesses so low that only Woody can hear him. "I thought I outgrew you, but… I _didn't._"

Woody would have liked Andy to say anything, and yet, he's glad that Andy hadn't said anything else. For a small moment before Andy's mother calls upstairs to him, Woody feels the happiest he ever has, because for a moment, Andy loved him again.


End file.
